


Contest

by yeaka



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> This is a redrabbled version of the extremely old story, 'Contest,' from my ancient FFN account.

Another kick that I block and another punch that you dodge; your foot finds my stomach and my yell is so common, even to my own ears. I catch the side of your face with my fist, but the next three miss—then you’re behind me and you slam me to the ground.

You ask me to give and I don’t. I swerve to the side and elbow your thighs—you topple off—you always miss the unusual throws. You roll out of the way and my foot sinks into the earth, rocks rippling aside like paper. You jump into the air and I follow—you duck below and try to ram up into me. I cut behind you and next you’re on the ground—up before I get there.

Then you start to back away—every punch I make, you’re a few centimeters too far, never returning the favour.

“I think... we should call it a day...!” you half pant, half shout across the empty plane. I shake my head furiously—you always do this. I don’t care if the sun is setting—I don’t care if everything’s orange and you’re tired or _hungry_. You’re always hungry, and I haven’t won yet.

I never quit before I win, although you always pull out. I step back a moment, stopping, mostly just to lull you into a false sense of security. You’re such an idiot. You stop with a smile, arms falling loosely to your sides.

Mine are fists. My breath is heavy. The air is thin. You. Always. Win.

And I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, _I hate it_. You don’t even care. It’s all a fucking game to you; you don’t appreciate it and you don’t understand it and I don’t even know if you take me seriously.

I want to beat your brains out so badly I dream of it nightly, and when you take an unsuspecting step further, I spin-kick you in the shoulder, knocking you into the rocks.

“Vegeta!” You growl, spitting out the blood and dodging my next punch infuriatingly easy. I rip my bruised fingers out of the stone, snarling after your disappearing form. “Hey! I said let’s stop!”

“I don’t care! We’re not done!” You swerve out of the way a few steps, like we’re dancing and this is nothing. Neither of us has powered down yet, and my glow is gold with my anger. I don’t know why I’m always _angry_ at you, but it’s rare that I look at your face and don’t feel _something_.

You wrinkle your nose at me, but you know it’s no use. You start to really _fight_ again, even though it’s obvious you’re tired, and I must be too, because you _win_. You disappear and shove me into a nearby boulder, trying to pin me down and whine, “C’mon, it’s late, we should go ba—”

I don’t have a wife and I don’t have a kid and I don’t have to go fucking anywhere. I struggle in your grip and your power level flares—you pin me back down—back to the rock, your thick fingers around my wrists. I try to knee you but you dodge and step on my feet to hold them down. I fucking hate you.

You semi-glare, semi-pout at me until I power down. You’re absolutely maddening. When my hair’s black again, you still don’t follow suit—I guess you know me better than you let on. Your voice lowers to an infuriatingly soft inquiry, as though you’re speaking to a child. “Can I let go?”

I don’t so much answer as glare at you, like I usually do. I just barely manage to resist the urge to spit in your face. Your eyebrows knit together—you want to say more, and I can see it. You’re a glass house, Kakarot.

You’re obvious and inelegant, and very, very foolish. I can see it all in your face, every word you want to say, but won’t. Maybe you know there’s no point. I won’t answer, anyway.

I won’t reject you.

But I won’t answer.

You open your mouth anyway, and I can feel your fingers flex against my skin. You’re nervous and the contact’s getting to you—the closeness is too much. I can feel your breath against my face as much as you can feel mine, and I look away to prevent things from getting worse. The cool air isn’t much to detract from the warmth around this, and my skin is slick with sweat. Eventually, you mumble, “I... I’ve been wanting to tell you something...”

I just want to fight. I want to pound you into the ground, I want the Earth to tremble with the force of my fists, I want to see the light go out of your eyes, and I want to hear surrender on your lips.

I growl, “What?” And I make it clear in my eyes that if you say it, I won’t answer.

You frown.

You shake your head and pull away—I throw one last punch that you don’t manage to block. It catches you in the eye and you double back, holding it. You look at me like you’re more hurt than you are, and I hate that.

I hate you.

I’ll never reject you; I just won’t answer.

You take off; I’ve lost again.


End file.
